


A Little Bit Naive and A Little Bit Stupid

by KitanaRiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Are those a real thing?, F/M, First Time, Flirty Staring Contests?, Getting Together, M/M, Semi-Enemies to lovers, Sexual Tension, Sherlock has a heart, So does everyone really, They were all besties in uni, cuddles too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitanaRiddle/pseuds/KitanaRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative Universe - John, Greg, Jim and Irene all went to University together. They agree to meet ten years later but John being shot four years too early and starting a flat share with Jim's nemesis changes those plans a pinch.<br/>Follows much of the plot as <i>A Scandal in Belgravia</i> but assuming the <i>The Great Game</i> never happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed and Unbritpicked

“I thought you were gay?” Greg asked incredulously.

“I am,” the woman lying naked on the bed answered.

“Oh okay, I must’ve missed when being a lesbian meant screwing my best mate.”

Irene rolled her eyes at him before climbing out of the bed to find her dress and pull it over her head. She gave Greg a sharp pat on the cheek before placing a kiss on the red mark left by her hand.

“Be a doll and tell John it was a blast, but I had to run to meet up with Jim. Ta!”

Greg sat on the end of his best mate’s bed, the smell of sex still heavy in the air. He ran his hand through his hair muttering under his breath until finally John emerged from the loo.

“You are shameless Watson!” Greg yelled when John dropped his towel and started pulling on his pants as if he hadn’t been caught screwing Irene, “she’s _gay_ and you still bedded her.”

John flashed a quick grin, “She said it was a goodbye present. Where’d she run off to?”

“Something about Jim’s all I heard.”

“All you bothered to listen too is more like it,” John laughed as he pulled on a jumper and sat beside his housemate, “You’re upset and I know it isn’t about Irene.”

Greg gave a half-hearted shrug and nudged his shoulder against John’s, “You’re off to the war and Irene’s heading to America. Then there’s me, staying in London with no grand adventures in my future.”

Slinging an arm around the other’s shoulder, John snickered, “Only you would consider joining the police force to be boring.”

Their moment was interrupted as Irene appeared in the doorway, “Forgot my smalls… Oi! I know no woman will ever live up to me but you didn’t need to turn gay Johnny.”

The dark haired woman sat on Greg’s other side and started kissing her way up his stubbled jaw, “Ten years and we’ll come back to London. John and I promised you. You’re a big boy Gregory, don’t cry for me.”

He pushed her off from where she’d draped herself over his shoulder, “Sod off Adler. Obviously I’m crying for John. Who’d miss you?”

She kissed him chaste on the lips before finding her underwear under the bed and slipping it on, “I’ll see you at dinner, yeah? Stamford’s got us booked at that Italian place with the non-stop pizza.”

As she left once more, John flopped back onto the rumpled bed and called at her retreating form, “Don’t you dare bring Moriarty. The last thing I want is to spend my last night with that looney.”

His mate fell back beside him and laughed, “At least we know it won’t be boring if he comes.”

* * *

“Lestrade,” Greg answered his phone with more bite than he intended. Anderson and Donovan were having a spat of some sorts and the tension only got worse when some nameless bureaucrat spent half the afternoon drilling him about his connection to the crack head that had been hanging out at the crime scenes the last four years. Not that he’d been a crack head after the first case when Greg told him to sober up and come to the next crime scene if he wanted to help. Two months passed without a word and then the man came swooping in with his bloody trench coat and solved the crime in fifteen minutes. The high number of cases Greg found himself calling Sherlock into must’ve been what sparked the bureaucrat’s impromptu visit.

“John’s been shot,” the voice on the other end of the line was one he’d not heard in six years.

“What?” he crumpled into the chair behind him, “How do you know? Is he going to make it?”

Irene answered as quickly as he’d asked the questions, “I had Jim send in one of his men to keep an eye on John. Sebastian’s managed to get him back to the base but he’s in critical.”

“Never thought I’d be grateful for that dodgy bastard,” Greg felt relieved; for all that Moriarty was a criminal, he always delivered when Irene needed him.

“I’ve got business I can’t leave, but I’m hoping to be back in the year. I’ll keep you updated, yeah?”

Greg couldn’t help the chuckle that left his throat, “Keep me updated on John, not on whatever illegal plans you’ve got going on. I _am_ a cop y’know.”

Irene giggled back before giving a barely audible sigh, “It’s lovely to hear your voice Gregory. I’ll call you.”

Sitting in his chair, Greg listened to the dial tone as she hung up.  He was anxious to get up; his legs felt weak and he wasn’t sure he could stand without collapsing. John had sent him an email not even two weeks, reporting that he was going to happy to get out of the hospital and join a few men on a routine check.  The email said it wasn’t a long trip, two days, but what neither man had known was that it was long enough for John to get critically wounded.  Greg’s moment of silence for his injured mate was cut short as Sherlock burst through the door.

“Lestrade I need clearance to the labs at Bart’s. Give me a pass of some sorts claiming I’m one of yours,” the man demanded.

“Not bloody likely,” Greg jumped to his feet in outrage, “I’m not responsible for you.”

The tall man refused to move and Greg had to physically ram past him to leave his office. His fear for John momentarily overrun by his anger for the _consulting detective._

“I’ll tell you who that man earlier was,” Sherlock called after him, “the one with the umbrella.”

Greg spun on his heel and grabbed Sherlock by his lapels, “I’m not an idiot Sherlock; that man who wasted my time was your brother. Yet another way that you make my life more difficult.”

Sherlock pushed the DI away from him, his hands slipping to Greg’s waist for the briefest of moment, and flew out of the Yard. It wasn’t until Greg was at the next crime scene standing over a dead body with Anderson that he realized his access card to St. Bart’s was missing.

* * *

“Lestrade,” Greg answered through a mouthful of pasta. He and Donovan had been pulling late nights after the second _suicide_ had shown up. They agreed something seemed wrong about the circumstances even if they had no proof.

“Our little doctor’s been back in London a month,” the voice on the other line purred.

Greg motioned to his office and then his phone, letting Donovan know he needed to take it in private.

Once he’d gotten in his office he answered, “Christ Jim, if John ever heard you call him that he’d deck you.”

Moriarty giggled on the other line before returning his voice to its usual vicious snarl, “Johnny boy owes me his _boring_ life.”

“Yes Jim, we are very grateful to you and solemnly swear never to let John know how you saved him. I haven’t heard that a million times this month.”

“Mmmmm, sarcastic as ever Gregory. According to his psychiatrist-”

“NO!” Greg cut him off with a shout, “I’m not invading my best mate’s privacy.”

With an overdramatized sigh the other man replied, “Ordinary people are so moral; it’s sickening.  Oh well. He is looking for a flat share though, know anybody? Perhaps you now that you’ve caught Mrs. Lestrade riding your marriage councillor?”

With a curse Greg told him, “you make me think you’re an alright person and then you say shit like that. C’mon Jim.”

“Would it help if I apologized?” Jim sounded bored.

“You wouldn’t mean it, so no.  I’ve got days off soon provided there are no more suicides so I’ll give John a visit after. Update me if he finds a flat share and moves before then.”

The man on the other line let out a full laugh, “Oh yes, those _nasty_ suicides. I’ll keep you updated on Johnny boy.”

The line went silent and Greg returned to where Donovan was glaring at her phone, “You’ve got a press conference tomorrow.”

“What? Why?” Greg felt the exhaustion of his late nights catching up to him.

Donovan started putting her coat on as she answered, “There’s been a third suicide.”

* * *

**_You know where to find me. -SH_ **

Staring at the text on his phone, Greg felt his shoulders drop in defeat.  He picked up his phone and made the phone call he loathed to make, but found himself making it more often than not.

“Detective Inspector, it’s lovely as always to hear from you.”

“Good evening Mr. Holmes. We’re going to bring Sherlock in on the suicides.”

Greg could practically hear the smirk when Mycroft answered, “That’s wise of you. He’s currently at his new flat, 221B Baker Street. I’ll sweep it for drugs when you are at the crime scene. Until next time, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

As much as the man was a prat, Greg was appreciative that the man helped him keep Sherlock in line. If tonight ended as he suspected, Sherlock would hide evidence and Greg would have to organise a drugs busts to get it. Neither Greg nor Mycroft wanted the younger man to be arrested so they had arranged for Mycroft to remove any of Sherlock’s drugs beforehand.

Donovan and Anderson sent him texts the entire time Greg drove to Sherlock’s new flat.  They claimed they could solve it without him; however, the addition of RACHE on the floor meant they were out of their depth.  He barely paused when he rushed into the detective’s flat and begged him to come to the scene. With a fleeting glance at the older woman and the man sitting in the chair, Greg sped back to the crime scene. It was only once he was staring over the pink clad woman’s body that he realized the man in the chair looked eerily familiar. Unable to place him, the Detective Inspector focused on the task at hand. He’d just finished pulling off his blue suit when his radio went off.

Beep “ _Freak’s here. Bringing him in.”_ Beep.

Greg let Anderson rush out the door to exchange banter with Sherlock while he grabbed a new suit and started pulling it on.

“You’ll need to wear one of these,” he heard a baritone voice from the doorway.

Looking up, half dressed in his suit Greg started to speak, “Who’s th- John Watson, bloody hell.”

He was unsure who looked more surprised, Sherlock or John; however, it was evident neither man was expecting Greg to recognize the solider. Before he could stop himself, Greg was pulling the shorter man into a deep hug. When he pulled back he noticed the flush of embarrassment on John’s cheeks and then he noticed the cane. Moriarty had told him John was shot in the shoulder, but the DI merely raised an eye and said nothing.

“What, you two _know_ each other?” Sherlock snarled.

“Haven’t seen him in six years but I’d say we know each other,” Greg smiled as John, who still had an expression of shock.

“Greg,” he finally spoke, his voice slightly rough, “I came back a little early.”

“Yeah, four years early. You’ll have to catch me up, right.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “In case it’s slipped your tiny brains but there is a dead woman upstairs I’d like to see.”

“Course, right,” Greg’s eyes never left John, “we’ll get a pint when this mess is over.”

John and Greg finished putting on their blue suits and the trio made their way up the stairs while Greg filled Sherlock in on the details. He tried not to flinch every time he heard John’s cane knock against the stairs. Irene had warned him that John wasn’t doing well but he’d never imagined the limp or the tremor he’d noticed in his mate’s hand.  It was when Sherlock started showing off that Greg realized the effect it had on the soldier.

“That’s brilliant,” John mumbled starry eyed as Sherlock explained her marital status based on her wedding ring. His hand wasn’t shaking and he was putting no weight on his cane, “Sorry.”

“Cardiff?” the Detective Inspector asked, knowing the consulting detective would continue with his peacocking.

After insulting them, Sherlock rattled off details on how he could deduce Jennifer Wilson was from Cardiff and when he finished John filled the silence.

“That’s fantastic!”

Sherlock’s brows wrinkled as he muttered, “Do you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry I’ll shut up.”

Greg had never seen Sherlock with that expression as the man replied, “No, it’s fine.”

However, as much as Greg wanted to solve whatever equation those two men were creating, he knew he had a murder to solve, “Why do you keep saying suitcase?”

Once more the taller man went on with a rant before suddenly his eyes perked up and gleamed, “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

John and Greg exchanged quick grins before the latter followed Sherlock out the door calling, “Sherlock there was no case!”

“They take the poison themselves. They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn’t miss them,” he yelled back while pausing his dash down the stairs.

“Right, yeah thank. And…?” Greg responded as John’s cane hit the floor behind him, signalling the man was joining him.

“It’s muder, all of them. I don’t know how. They’re not suicides; they’re killings, serial killings.  We’ve got ourselves a serial killers. Love those! There’s always something to look forward to.”

Eventually Greg got fed up with Sherlock’s riddles and let the man leave as he hollered **PINK**!  He placed his hand on John’s shoulder, the right one, and gave a quick squeeze.

“You owe me a pint Watson, for not writing me the last months. Once Sherlock’s got it sorted you can let me know how you got back to London and ended up with him of all people.”

John nodded and made his slow way down the stairs while Greg loomed over Jennifer Wilson once more, trying to forget about his friend.

His team finished gathering evidence and taking pictures before Greg drove himself and Donovan back to the station to find out who Rachel is. They’d only made two phone calls, both going to voicemail, when Greg’s personal cell went off. He darted into his office before he answered.

“Lestrade.”

“I’ve just met a friend of yours Detective Inspector. He’s a brave man to be sure, and yet you never mentioned he’d returned to England.”

“Listen I don’t have time for this right now. I didn’t know he was back until today when _your_ brother drug him to my crime scene,” Greg sat at his computer and started looking for more contact information on Jennifer Wilson’s family, when suddenly his printer came to life and started to print.

“My apologize Detective Inspector. You should find all of her close family’s information of that page.  Though tell me, what do you think of the new companionship between Sherlock and Doctor John Watson?” Mycroft asked, slight fatigue evident in his tone.

Greg picked up the paper and scanned over the names and phone numbers, “I think John is an amazing bloke and I think he’d be good for your brother; though I can’t say Sherlock would be good for him.”

“I doubt Sherlock could be considered good for anyone,” Mycroft spoke a little too quietly, “His apartment’s been cleared and he and Doctor Watson are heading out in a short while. Good evening Detective.”

* * *

“So,” Greg called to the office once they’d hit a dead end in their investigation, “who’s up for a drugs bust?”

Anderson peaked immediately, as did several others in the department.  With Mycroft’s confirmation, Greg led his crew into 221B Baker Street. He was glad John wasn’t home, obviously off with Sherlock. Knowing they wouldn’t find anything other than the pink suitcase, he sat in Sherlock’s chair and waited for the men to return.

“What are you doing?” the tall man demanded as he swooped in through the door.

“Well I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid,” Greg answered, watching as John raised an eyebrow at him mockingly.

“You can’t just break into my flat.”

“You can’t withhold evidence! And I didn’t break into your flat.”

Sherlock through his arms out, “Well what do you call this then?”

Greg couldn’t hold back his grin as he answered, “It’s a drugs bust.”

He watched as his mate’s face curled into the same look of disbelief is had fifteen years ago when Greg introduced himself and said they’d be mates since they were both going to be co-captains of the footy team, “Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?”

“John.”

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

“John you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock whispered, leaning close to the soldier.

“Yeah but come on… No,” John’s eyes flicked to assess Sherlock, “You?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock looked almost worried as he hissed that before turning to Greg who was watching with curious amusement, “I’m not your sniffer dog!”

“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.”

The man mentioned peeked around the corner of the kitchen and gave Sherlock a sassy wave.

“Anderson what are you doing here on a drugs bust?”

Anderson was good at his job; granted not Sherlock good, but who was really? Greg liked to give Anderson chances to snark back at the man so he chuckled as his forensics agent answered, “Oh, I volunteered.”

“They all did. They’re not, strictly speaking, on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.”

Sergeant Donovan joined in, “Are these human eyes?”

John gawked at the exchange between the two; Greg could see the inquisitive horror on his face.  He turned to Sherlock, who was now pacing the living room muttering about how childish it all was.

“Well I’m dealing with a child,” he told the man, “Sherlock this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

“So you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

With a quick glance at John Greg retorted, “It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

Despite Sherlock announcing he’s a _high functioning sociopath_ , then following that announcement by wondering why Jennifer Wilson would still care about Rachel, telling John he was stupid and then the man running off in a cab, John never lost the look of adoration for the consultant.  Greg felt guilty for the relief washing over him but after the reports Moriarty and Irene he knew John wasn’t doing well.

In the evening that his mate had been with Sherlock, he’d lost his limp and the tremor in his hand.  Greg watched John’s steady left hand hold the phone as he called Jennifer Wilson’s missing cell. He let Donovan have her rant before calling it.

“Okay everybody, we’re done here.”

As he pulled on his coat Greg turned to John, “Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?”

John closed his eyes before answering, “You know him better than I do.”

“I’ve known him for five years, and no, I don’t.”

“So why do you put up with him?”

Straightening his jacket Greg replied, “Because I’m desperate, that’s why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man.  And I think one day if we’re very, very lucky he might be a good one.”

It was the look in his eye that made Greg certain John was going to stick with Sherlock. The look mirrored the same one he had when they were seventeen and turning a corner on campus to find Irene Adler with a split lip and a bruise on her cheek. John had wiped the blood away, listening as the girl cried about the boy who’d tried to have his way with her before she’d managed to run off. John left Irene in Greg’s arms, the girl promising she’d never let a man best her again, and was suspended from school for a week after he’d beaten the boy raw. Greg never thought he’d see the look again, let alone directed towards Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Greg watched as Sherlock and John left the crime scene giggling. He wasn’t shocked by that, nor was he shocked by Mycroft Holmes slipping out of a car to address the boys. John had shot the damn cabbie and thankfully Sherlock wasn’t going to help with the investigation so Greg could wrap it up as an unsolved murder.  Mycroft offered him a ride home and Greg was too tired to pretend he didn’t need the ride.

“Do I need to intervene?” the politician asked once they were settled.

He liked the Mycroft never assumed he was an idiot the same way that Sherlock did, “No, I suspect Sherlock will get John cleaned and the gun hidden. I’m just glad this nightmare is done.”

Mycroft gave a slow nod, “Doctor Watson is willing to kill for Sherlock. As well, Sherlock’s newest fan is an old friend of yours.”

“Newest fan? Obviously John is an old friend of mine…” Greg’s confusion was evident in his voice.

“Ah you mistake me Detective Inspector. By newest fan I mean the gentleman who paid the cabby to kill.  Moriarty.”

Greg hadn’t the faintest idea of how the man wanted him to respond so the remainder of the ride was spent in silence. When the car reached his house, Greg got out with a quick thank-you before heading in the door. His wife was asleep, her hands curled by her face on the pillow. The memory of what Sherlock had said about Jennifer Wilson caused Greg to flick on the bedside lamp and look at his wife’s hand. All the rings on her hand were polished, except for her wedding ring. It was faded with smudges on the top and Greg thought about the marriage councillor and the look on her face when he’d walked in on them during his lunch break. She’d sworn it was a onetime thing and that he’d manipulated her, but Greg pulled off her ring to see the clean inside in contrast to its outside.

He slept on the couch that night.

* * *

Two months later they had settled into a routine of sorts. John would trail behind Sherlock, looking healthier and happier with each day, and still roll his eyes with Greg when the consultant did things particularly obnoxious. Once a week Greg and John would go to the pub and the nostalgia of their university days came back to them. They were such regular patrons that they always had a booth in the back waiting for them; it had a perfect view of both entrances as well as one of the exits. John, being ex-military, and Greg, being a cop, appreciated the specific positioning of their table. This Wednesday as they made their way to the back, they noticed a woman sitting cross legged on their table.

“Now, now boys,” she hummed, “It’s rude to keep a lady waiting.”

John rushed forward and pulled Irene into a deep hug while she ran her fingers through his hair.

“I really can’t decide which one of you I want to take more; the rugged military man or the chiselled police officer. I think I’ll have both of you, begging at the end of my riding crop.”

Greg took a long drink from the glass he was holding, “Is that what you two did all those years ago? Because I really don’t need to know.”

Irene took his glass and drank the rest before pulling him into an equally tight hug, “Jealousy looks so good on you Detective Inspector.”

“I’m not jealous, but John’s new boyfriend might be,” Greg mumbled into her neck.

“A boyfriend? Impressive Johnny-boy,” Irene moved to slide gracefully into the booth.

A dark look crossed John’s features, “Don’t call me that,” he hissed, “Jim tried to bloody kill my flatmate.”

“Oh dearest he wasn’t your flatmate when Jim arranged that. How was he to know that the Virgin would woo you so thoroughly?”

“I forgot how awful and annoying you are, Adler,” John grumbled as he slid into the booth next to her.

As the two continued to bicker, Greg wondered if there was a way to make John realize the feelings he had for the consulting detective.  He decided to speak with Mycroft about it the next chance he had. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed/unbritpicked

“There certainly appears to strong emotions between them. But Doctor Watson has clearly, and loudly, stated he is not gay,” Mycroft stared at Greg over his tea cup.

“We used to call him Three Continents Watson cause that man seduced anything he could. He’s not gay so much as he’s sexually interested in anything attractive,” Greg’s eyes became glossy as he remembered the days of university with John.

“How shocking.”

“Oh please,” Greg chuckled, “You have all of John’s exploits, sexual or not, tucked away in your secret government file.”

Mycroft gave the inspector a quick smile, “I couldn’t possibly comment on that. However I can state that Sherlock is not gay, as far as I am aware.”

“When it comes to Sherlock it’s impossible to tell. Even for another genius Holmes. Now here’s what I propose we do,” Greg leaned in closer as he plotted with the politician.

* * *

“Honestly!” Greg grumbled as he threw himself onto the couch across from where Irene sat, “I send Sherlock tickets to the circus and they discover a crime syndicate and make it into a bloody case rather than a date.”

Irene looked up from her phone and arched a single, perfect eyebrow, “Who are you trying to set up”

“Sherlock and John. The sexual tension is ridiculous.”

With a purse of her lips, Irene answered, “I doubt Jim would be pleased with that.”

“I’m pretty sure if those two got together they’d spend more time shagging than solving cases and Jim would get away with more. Not that I know of anything because I’m a cop!”

“I can promise that is not what will upset our dearest Jim,” Irene gave a throaty chuckle before standing and sliding into Greg’s lap, “But desperate Jim has always been my favourite. Let me help you.”

“Yes we all know how good you are at seduction, now would you get off my la-” Greg’s sentence was cut short as he tried to push Irene off and wound up tossing them both to the carpeted floor.

His hands flew out to stop his fall and he resulted in pressing his body solidly against _The Woman’s_ , while her hands flew to his shoulders.  Shocked at the intimate position they were in, Greg did the only thing he felt appropriate; he began to laugh.  Soon the pair was snickering whilst still entangled and they only stopped when Greg’s front door flew open with a bang.

“You revoked my access to Bart’s!” Sherlock snarled before he could see the pair, “What is-? Honestly Lestrade, can you not.”

Irene was the first to right herself, though Greg noted she did not pull down her dress which had risen up her thighs in the tumble, “So I finally get to meet the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on the milky white skin for a second too long before bringing his eyes to meet her charcoal outlined ones, “You’re not Lestrade’s wife but your intimacy suggests you’ve known him quite a long time. You cannot be his lover as you are the dominate one and Lestrade would never give up that control. If you’ve known him long enough to be that platonically intimate then you must know John as well. Therefore I can only presume you are Irene.”

She gave a satisfied smirk at the dark haired man, “They weren’t lying when they said brainy is the new sexy. Tell me, does John appreciate those cheekbones as much as I do?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer when a quiet moan from Irene’s purse cut him off. The woman grabbed it from where it fell on the floor before taking out her phone, “As much as I’d love to stay and chat, I have an appointment with Royalty. I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Holmes.”

With a quick wink to Greg, Irene vanished through the door. Sherlock was quick to recover from his shock once Irene had left and he resumed his frustrated rant before storming out in a flutter. However, had Greg been as observant as the Holmes brothers, he would have noticed Irene’s second phone had fallen from her purse and Sherlock had scooped it from the floor when he conveniently dropped his scarf.

* * *

John trailed after Sherlock as they broke into yet another building. John was thankful that this time it was the flat of someone he trusted not to shoot them. As Sherlock soundlessly picked the lock and then opened the door to the flat, John noticed the familiar scent of Irene’s vanilla perfume drift from the entrance.

“You know Sherlock, I could’ve gotten Irene to invite us over for tea tomorrow, rather than this,” John muttered for the fifth time that evening.

“John, she’s got a heavily encrypted phone with explosives wired into it. I need to know why,” the detective whispered back.

“Well Mr. Holmes that would be because that phone is my life.”

John and Sherlock looked away from each other to see Irene standing before them, completely nude.  The doctor couldn’t help but role his eyes at her ever present dramatic flourish.

“Did you think on my question, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock scoffed, his eyes never wavering from the woman’s face, “For the briefest of moments. I concluded that I did not have enough data.”

“Oh for god shake you two. Speak like normal humans,” John huffed as he followed the pair into the sitting room and dropped into the nearest chair.

“I had asked him if you appreciated his cheekbones as I do. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try Mr. Holmes?”

When the detective didn’t answer, she continued to talk, “Jim was right about you. You’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.”

Before the two could begin a fight, John interjected, "Irene can you put something on, please? Anything at all.”

“Why are you feeling exposed?”

Sherlock began removing his coat and handed it to the naked woman, “I don’t think John knows where to look.”

“No, my Johnny has already seen it all. He knows exactly where.  I’m not sure about _you_.”

“If I wanted to look at naked women I’d borrow John’s laptop.”

“Only naked women?” Irene smirked towards John, “Being a little more careful with your other tastes?”

“Irene…” John attempted to warn when suddenly he felt the recognizable feeling of a gun barrel pressed to his head.

“Tsk, tsk Johnny-boy,” a familiar Irish drawl filled the room, “You’ve never let me sneak up on you before.”

John’s face instantly grew hard and he glared at Irene, “You set us up. I kept it a secret and you let him get us.”

“The original plan was to have Jim sneak into your flat and retrieve my lost property but Mr. Holmes here interfered. The phone is not in the coat pocket so you must have it somewhere on you,” Irene walked to the fireplace and picked two items off the mantel, neither of which John could clearly see, “If you would be a doll and hand it over before anything bad happens to my favorite doctor.”

Sherlock grew straight but still refused to make any indication of where the phone was, his eyes fixed on John.  Irene paced around him and stroked her hand down his arm before stabbing a syringe into his opposite arm. John screamed Sherlock’s name as the detective collapsed to his knees. Irene slapped him and pushed him to the floor with her hand.

“Give it to me. Now.” Irene hissed as she took the second item, a riding crop, and began to smack the man with it.  When Sherlock failed to respond she ran her fingers along his sides until she felt the bump in his shirt pocket. She pulled it out with a triumphant call and stared at the inebriated man.

As all of this happened Jim watched John’s reactions. The doctor grew more panicked as the exchange between the other two went on until finally Jim’s anger got the best of him and he snarled, “Irene.”

She looked up from the phone that she’d just pulled out and rolled her eyes, “It’s nothing personal John, you know that? Jim and I have to do what we’ve always done.”

“What did you give him?” John all but yelled.

“Nothing dangerous. He’ll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse.”

Irene turned back to the almost unconscious man as he attempted to get up, “No, no, no, no. It’s been a pleasure, don’t spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you.”

She sauntered out and as John felt the pressure on the gun decrease as Jim went to follow, he sprung from his chair and grabbed the other man.  He held the criminal against the wall in a grip he knew would leave bruises, “Moriarty. I trusted you’d back off when you realized I was with Sherlock. But this is too far.”

Jim looked as if he’d been slapped but recovered swiftly, “ _With_ Sherlock? How could you ever think I’d let you be? You will be mine John Watson.”

The criminal pushed himself off the wall with hidden momentum and brushed a quick kiss on John’s lips before disappearing through the doorway.  Ignoring the rush of heat to his stomach, John glanced at his flatmate with a sigh knowing he’d have to haul the unconscious man to Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed and unbritpicked

John’s eyes drifted to the drugged man on the floor. He dreaded the thought of getting the detective back to their flat but he had even greater dread for when the man regained his senses and demanded answers. _How to you explain to your flatmate that his newest nemesis is your mate and this mate may or may not have romantic feelings for you._ Would Sherlock demand he move out? John couldn’t imagine going back to his dreary life before the wild detective pulled him into crime fighting. Sherlock interrupted his mental freak-out with a groan of _John_ and raised his arm blindly off the ground.

The doctor knelt over Sherlock and helped him to stand, supporting most of the disorientated man’s weight. The walk back to 221B was a slow one and by the time John lowered Sherlock onto his own bed, he was exhausted.

Sherlock slurred as he buried further into his pillow, “She didn’t beat me”

“Of course not,” John sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers running along the bruise on the detective’s cheek.

“We should sleep.”

John gave a half-hearted chuckle, “At least this is one way to get you some sleep.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and drug the man to lie beside him, “She didn’t beat me. Just sleep.”

Given how tired he was, John allowed himself to fall asleep with Sherlock’s soft breaths against his cheek.

* * *

Greg found himself sneaking into Baker Street at the demand of Mycroft. The CCTV camera picked up John guiding a bruised and out of it Sherlock through the streets of London. Mycroft had been distant on the phone and Greg feared Sherlock had relapsed.  He was expecting to find an enraged John but instead he found both men curled up in Sherlock’s bed with their arms pressed against each other.  John stirred under his gaze and sat up in a panic before meeting Greg’s eyes. The doctor’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he clambered out of the bed after checking Sherlock’s pulse. He led the DI to the living room and gave him a cup of tea and some cracked biscuits.

“Irene drugged him and Jim held a gun to my head.”

“John, I wish I could do something but…” Greg trailed off and looked down at the carpet with shame.

“They proved how untouchable and uncontrollable they are in uni. But there’s something else,” John paused to take a deep breath in, “He kissed me.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“There’s always been something between us but I can’t imagine living happily ever after He’s too-”

Greg cut him off, “Intolerable? Frustrating? Arrogant? Genius? Easy on the eyes? Insensitive? Controlling?-”

“All of the above,” John laughed.

“Well I’ve always thought the two of you would be great together, but I’ll support you no matter.  I best be off though.”

John stood with Greg and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Thanks for checking on us.”

“Mycroft didn’t give me much of a choice. I’m just glad it’s not what I suspected.”

With a final nod, Greg left their flat mulling over the new information.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to a throbbing headache at the back of his eyes and he opened one eye, despite the agony he felt from the sunlight pouring into the room.

“John,” he groaned.

The doctor had pulled a chair from the kitchen to the side of Sherlock’s bed and was currently slumped over the detective, fast asleep on the man’s stomach.  His blond hair was tousled and there was a damp spot on Sherlock’s shirt from drool. Slowly the raven haired man raised his hand and let it fall with a heavy smack onto John’s cheek.

“OW! What the buggerin-” John stopped when he realized Sherlock was awake and gave the man a large smile.

“You never mentioned your university mates were members of the criminal underbelly,” Sherlock’s eyes were too sharp and observing for someone who just awoke.

“Sherlock they’re not just members. That man was Jim Moriarty,” John swallowed hard when he spoke the man’s name.

“Yes I was conscious enough to hear you say that, as well as witness your **kiss** ,” Sherlock snarled the last word.

“Are you jealous?” John asked incredulously.

“Of course not, I’m disappointed that Moriarty isn’t smart enough to realize he’s not your type.”

John gave a small quirk of his mouth before placing hand on Sherlock’s forehead, “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough to notice you did not agree with my statement.”

“Sherlock, it’s complicated. Even Greg thinks that there’s something that’d make us great together.”

Sherlock pushed John’s hand off his head, “Of course you would be. You’re loyal, brave and charming while he’s dangerous, powerful and strangely compelling. He’d satisfy your need for thrills while you’d bring out the most human elements of his personality.”

With a tilt of his head John asked, “Did you just give me your blessing?”

Rather than answer Sherlock gave his usual smile and went to stand up, “What about _The Woman_?”

“She called early this morning. Wanted to apologize and explain to me that she didn’t entend for either of us to be involved in Jim’s plans. Irene’s got blackmail material from her job that’s on that phone. Basically she told me that phone was her life and without it she’d have no protection from some people she made angry in America. She’s not so much a criminal as she is a drama queen. She likes to be in control and you took it from her when you had the phone.”

“She didn’t beat me.”

John gave a hearty laugh, “Of course not.”

* * *

A few days later Jim Moriarty was sitting cross-legged in a plush leather chair, listening in on the wiretap his mole had placed in the Iceman’s umbrella. So far he’d skipped through most of the day’s conversations when he heard a familiar laugh. He rewound the audio to hear what the politician said that made Greg Lestrade laugh.

“He kissed him?” There was scepticism in Mycroft’s voice.

“Yup, John told me when I went to check up on them. Still can’t believe Irene and Jim would pull a stunt like that. I thought they cared about John.”

 Mycroft hummed, “Criminals seldom tend to care for anything other than themselves.”

Greg laughed, “And I never would have suspected that Sherlock would. I told you he and John had chemistry.”

“Indeed you did foresee this. What was the doctor’s reaction to all of this?”

“Oh he was beyond mad but in regards to Sherlock’s kiss, he said he always felt something between them.”

Jim missed the rest of the conversation as his fist crushed the device in his hand.  _How dare Sherlock steal kisses from John? John belonged to **him.**_ He started to plot a way to ruin the consulting detective and secure the doctor for himself. But first he’d need his favourite woman to create a rift between the two.

* * *

John was sipping tea and mulling over the paper when he heard the erotic moan. Glancing up in shock he saw his flatmate pull out his cellphone and read a text. The man then put it back in his pocket without responding.

“When’d Irene do that?” he questioned.

“A week after she drugged me.”

“Do you ever answer?”

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow before resuming his sulk on the couch.

* * *

Three months had passed since Jim planned how to steal the army doctor.  Irene was making headway with the _Virgin_ by sending him flirtatious texts. It was time that he initiated the second part of his plan. He had Irene set a lock on her phone before he slipped into the empty flat of 221B and placed it under the skull on the mantel.

Sherlock and John had just arrived home from the Scotland Yard when another one of Irene’s moans echoed through the flat.

“Fifty seven.”

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked as he reached into his pocket.

“Fifty seven of those texts – the ones I’ve heard. Irene doesn’t even talk to me that often.”

_I like your friend on the mantel._

The detective forgave answering as he rushed to the fireplace, his coat billowing behind him, when he found the phone.

“Excuse me.”

“What – what’s up Sherlock?”

“I said excuse me,” Sherlock locked himself into his room, leaving John alone in the living area.

When Sherlock was secluded in his room and certain John would not follow to the door, he called his brother.

“Oh dear Lord. What mayhem have you caused that you’re coming to _me_ for help?”

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.”

Mycroft sighed, “We already know where she is. Although it hardly matters with the friends she has.”

“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbetaed and unbritpicked
> 
> Kinda shorter but it may be a week or so before I can get the next chapter up so I didn't wanna leave this until then.

Mycroft had arrived personally at their flat and asked the two men to identify the body. It took all of John’s strength not to break into tears over her corpse. Instead he traced a bruise on her wrist and wished that he could recognize her face beneath the gore of shattered bones and blood. Sherlock’s upper lip quivered for the briefest of moments before he composed himself and stepped out with Mycroft for a smoke.

John called Greg while he left Molly to handle the rest, “Irene is dead.”

“What? Where are you?” Greg demanded.

“Bart’s. You can’t even tell that it’s her,” John’s voice was calm and steady despite the tremor in his left hand.

“I’ll come to you.”

John watched through the glass of the door as Sherlock exhaled smoke into the hallway, “No. I’ve got to stay with Sherlock. He took the cigarette.”

“Well shite.”

* * *

It had been three months since Irene’s body was found, face brutally smashed and bruises littering her usually flawless, milky skin.  As John listened to Sherlock’s mournful violin playing the thought hit him. **Where was Moriarty? Why hadn’t he kept Irene safe?**   John felt his anger build now that it had a nameable target. He wasn’t naïve; he knew how far of a reach that Moriarty’s web had.  Even Moriarty had stopped his _sexts_ to John since she’d been found. John wondered if that was a sign of Jim’s shame or if the criminal didn’t want to draw the doctor’s attention to how he’d failed them as a mate.

Sherlock’s playing never faltered as John slammed his fist and growled, “Dammit Jim.”

“Who’s Jim, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she brought up a tea tray.

Rather than answer John stomped to his room and got ready to take a walk to calm his nerves.  As he left he heard Mrs. Hudson ask about the song and Sherlock exclaim about the broken hit counter on John’s blog. However, the doctor was too overwhelmed with rage to listen.

When he stepped out the door a black car was waiting for him and he got in with a sigh, knowing it was Mycroft wanting yet another update on his broken-hearted brother. The car ride took longer than usual as it looped through back roads until he reached an abandoned warehouse. The car was also missing Anthea but the divider between him and the driver had been lowered.

John rolled his eyes as they stopped and the two men made eye contact through the rear view mirror, “Couldn’t we just go to a café? Sherlock doesn’t follow me everywhere.”

The driver merely shrugged and got out to open the army doctor’s door and lead him into the building He pointed John towards a doorway and spoke with a deep, gruff voice, “Through there.”

As John walked away the driver pulled out his phone and sent a text.

**_He’s on his way. You’re right boss, he thinks it’s the Iceman._ **

Despite the absence of anyone in the room, John knew Mycroft’s style so he began to speak, “He’s writing sad music; doesn’t eat; barely talks – only to correct the television. I’d say he was heartbroken but, well, he’s Sherlock. He does all that anyw…”

Irene moved into the light so John could see her, “Hello John.”

Suddenly all of John’s pent up fury flashed dangerously in his eyes, “How could you do this to me? To Greg? To **Sherlock?** Tell him you’re alive.”

She shook her head, “he’d come after me.”

“I’ll come after you if you don’t.”

She pressed her red lips together and hummed, “I believe you.”

John felt his voice rise, “You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you. We mourned you.”

“DNA  tests are only as good as the records you keep.”

“And I bet you and Jim know the record keeper.”  
“I know what he likes and Jim knows what he’d hate to lose. I needed to disappear.”

If there was any relief that his friend wasn’t it dead, John couldn’t feel it, “then how come _I_ can see you and I don’t even want to?”

Irene flinched at the bite in his voice, “Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help.”

“No.”

“It’s for his own safety.”

John scoffed, “So’s this: tell him you’re alive.”

“I can’t,” her voice was barely a whisper.

“Fine. I’ll tell him and I still won’t help you.”

As he turned to walk away, she called to him, “John. What do I say?”

“What do you normally say? You’ve texted him _a lot._ ”

“Just the usual stuff.”

The doctor sighed and ran his hand over his face in frustration, “There is no ‘usual’ in this case.”

Irene looked down at her phone and began to rattle off some of the texts she’d sent, “‘Good morning’, ‘I like your funny hat.’ ‘I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner.’ ‘You looked sexy on _Crimewatch_. Let’s have dinner.’ ‘I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.’”

The disbelief on her mates face caused her to stop as John stuttered out, “You _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?!”

“At him. He never replies.”

“No, Sherlock always replies – to _everything_.  He’s Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word.”

“Does that make me special?” she smiled.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

With a tentative step forward she whispered, “Are you jealous?”

“We’re not a couple.”

Irene smirked, “no I daresay Jim wouldn’t let him have you.”

“Dammit Irene, this is not about my feelings for Sherlock versus my feelings for Jim.”

“So you have feelings for Jim?”

John’s shoulders tensed, “Irene.”

“Fine. ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner’,” she pressed send after reading the text to John.

“Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”

“Well I am. Look at us both.”

Irene and John began to chuckle when a familiar orgasmic moan filled the corridor. John’s eyes widen and he began to walk towards the noise when Irene grabbed him, her sharp nails digging into the flesh of his arm.

“I don’t think so, do you?”

* * *

Jim was stunned to see John’s phone number appear on his caller ID. He knew that Irene had revealed herself to be alive that morning but he couldn’t imagine John would be calling him over that.

“My little doctor, what can I do for you?” he purred.

There was hesitation before John replied, “What’s on Irene’s phone?”

“Now Johnny, I know I’m brilliant but I can’t possibly know what’s on a dead woman’s lost phone.”

“CIA agents broke into our flat looking for the phone. Obviously it’s got something worth breaking international law over.”

The criminal screamed, “ _What?_ How could they have broken in and I not gotten- nevermind. Are you alright?”

John gave a huff of laughter, “wasn’t even home when it happened. Just Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock saved her. Not like you _actually_ care. You let me believe Irene was dead for three months.”

“What Irene chooses to do with the contents of her phone is truly her choice.  I’m merely assisting her in getting what she deeply desires for it.”  
“This isn’t a game. People will get hurt.”

“That’s what people _do._ In fact there are a few people I need to hurt in the nearest future. I do love hearing your voice. Shall I stop by Baker Street sometime and visit, dearest?”

“Sherlock is going to figure out the lock and then all these lies will be for nothing. Greg and I are being pushed away for your games, Moriarty.”

Jim gave a chuckle, “Moriarty is it now? You were calling me Jim before. How many more tries does the detective have? Two.  It wasn’t the broken hit counter on your blog nor was it your address… I wonder if your loyalty is being placed in the right person. Ta for now Johnny-boy.”

With a click of his phone, Jim hung up on the man before storming off to find Sebastian.  Whoever they had running surveillance on Baker Street failed to mention the break-in. Mistakes like that were not to be tolerated and Jim planned on thoroughly punishing the man… after he took care of some CIA agents.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed and unbritpicked

Irene’s phone began to ring whilst she was straddling a client who was face down on the bed. With a huff she got off of the young woman and answered it, “What?”

“Tsk, tsk, is that anyway to speak to your dearest friend?”

“I’m rather busy right now. Unless you have a purpose, call back later.”

Jim gave a vicious growl, “If I want to call and talk about the bloody weather, you will shut up and _listen._ Understood?”

“Always so melodramatic,” Irene sighed and pressed the end of the wooden paddle in hand to her lips, “I’m listening.”

“John’s not texted me since the CIA break-in but he’s stopped throwing away the gifts I send him. Now would be a good time for you to thoroughly seduce _The Virgin._ And blackmail his brother for your demands.”

“Ah yes, the way to any man’s heart is to thoroughly beat him. I prefer physically but the Holmes boys need a more… delicate touch,” Irene purred, “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Good.” Jim hung up on her as abruptly as he always had.

With a roll of her eyes, she sauntered back up to her client and brought the wooden panel onto her rear, “Well your majesty, tonight’s the last night that I can punish you for how _wicked_ you’ve been.”

* * *

Sherlock stopped as he walked past the kitchen.  There was a slight floral scent to the room and a lock of his hair brushed his cheek as he walked past the open window. He knew instantly from the window that there was the intruder but it was the smell that had his mind rushing with images of white skin, red lips and the perfume that lingered on the inside of his coat collar. His ruminating was interrupted by the familiar sounds of John running up the stairs.

John smiled as he placed the groceries on the counter; however, upon seeing his flatmates face his smile dropped, “Sherlock?”

“We have a client.”

“What, in your bedroom?!” John walked to stand beside the detective, “Ohhh.”

Irene, with her hair messy and her face with no makeup, was fast asleep in Sherlock’s bed. 

As the two men stared down at her, she raised her head and gave a half-hearted smile, “Hello boys.”

* * *

John watched as Sherlock and Irene stared at each other for much longer than the situation called for.  Sherlock’s eyes held admiration and annoyance while Irene’s were brimming with cockiness and ego.

“Hamish,” John’s voice startled the duo, “John Hamish Watson. As best mates to both of you I think it’s only right you name the baby after me.”

Sherlock frowned while Irene rolled her eyes, “There was a man – an MOD official. I knew what he liked,” Irene’s story paused as she typed in the passcode out of the sight of Sherlock or John, “One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it at the time but I photographed it. He was a bit tied up at the time. It’s a bit small on the screen – can you read it?”

The detective took the phone and read the email. His mind began racing immediately, “yes.”

“A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it, though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out. What can _you_ do, Mr. Holmes? Go on, impress a girl.”

By the time Irene placed a kiss on his cheek, Sherlock had numerous ideas running rapid through his mind, _“_ There’s a margin for error but I’m pretty sure there’s a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.  Oh, come on. It’s not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look: there’s no letter ‘I’ because it can be mistaken for a ‘1’; no letters past ‘K’ – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport. Please don’t feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John’s expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language.”

John flinched at the smile he saw creep onto Irene’s face before she breathed out seductively to the detective, “I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice.”

After another long moment of staring at each other, Sherlock turned to his doctor, “John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I’m right?”

“Uh-huh. I’m on it, yeah.”

As John turned to his laptop to type, the Woman and The Virgin resumed their staring contest, “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”

“Twice.”

Once more John interrupted to confirm Sherlock’s theory. While he continued thinking on the code, Irene sent a text. 

**Jumbo Jet. Dear Me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me.**

 

* * *

Sherlock plucked at the strings of his violin, trying not to let his eyes wander to Irene, who was curled in John’s chair whilst wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown.  His mind wandered to Mycroft’s phone call during one of his visits many months before, trying to think how “Bond Air is Go” would save the world.

“Coventry.”

"What’s Coventry got to do with anything?”

“It’s a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code but they didn’t want the Germans to  _know_  that they’d broken the code, so they let it happen anyway.”

Irene wasn’t interested in old war stories, “Have you ever had anyone?”

“Sorry?”

“And when I say “had”, I’m being indelicate.”

“I don’t understand.”

Irene rose from her chair and knelt in front of the tall man, “Well, I’ll be delicate then.”

She placed her smooth left hand over top of his right hand and curled her fingers around him, “Let’s have dinner.”

"Why?”

“Might be hungry.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

Slowly, Sherlock sat forward and rotated his hand until his fingers could curl under her wrist, “Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes ...” she whispered and stared at his lips while his fingers gently stroked the skin on her wrist, “if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?”

She was about to lean in for the kiss to seal the seduction when the shrill voice of Mrs. Hudson broke the calm, “Sherlock!”

“Too late.”

Sherlock released his grip on Irene, “That’s not the end of the world; that’s Mrs. Hudson.”

Irene watched the exchange between Sherlock and the palace official before she left 221B to get ready to meet both of the Holmes boys together.

* * *

Mycroft’s lips were barely visible as he pressed them together and stared at Irene, “We have people who can get into this.”

“I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for months. Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you X-rayed my camera phone.”

Sherlock, whose chest felt unreasonably heavy for some reason, answered flatly, “There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive. Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive.”

Irene smirked, “Explosive. It’s more me.”

Mycroft, who had hung his head, raised it and spoke, “Some data is always recoverable.”

“Take that risk?”

“You have a passcode to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you.”

Without turning her head, she prompted, “Sherlock?”

“There will be two passcodes: one to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can’t know which one she’s given you and there will be no point in a second attempt.”

“He’s good, isn’t he? I should have him on a leash – in fact, I  _might,”_ She gazed at the sulking man and had he not been facing away, Sherlock would have seen the genuine hunger and longing in her eyes.

“We destroy this, then. No-one has the information,” Mycroft was still trying to play for power.

“Fine. Good idea ... unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you’re about to burn.”

“Are there?”

“Telling you would be playing fair. I’m not playing anymore,” she reached into her bag and took out two envelopes, “Each contains a list of my requests, I only require one of the two lists to be satisfied. You can pick which. You’ll notice the one is significantly shorter. And the other… well I’d say it wouldn’t blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation – but then I’d be lying.”

She watched him read the first one before gazing at her with shocked eyes. He then read the second and Irene enjoyed watching his distress, “I imagine you’d like to sleep on it.”

“Thank you, yes,” Mycroft was rereading the second request.

“Too bad.”

Sherlock snorted in silent amusement at her.

“You’ve been very ... thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you.”

“I can’t take all the credit. Had a bit of help,” she smiles viciously, “Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love.”

“Yes, Doctor Watson’s admirer. He’s been in touch with us as well.”

“I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal, it’s nice having friends in such high places. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. D’you know what he calls you? The Ice Man” she turned her gaze to Sherlock, “and the Virgin.”

The detective failed to acknowledge as his eyes darted about. He was deep in thought.

“And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees. Nicely played. I cannot grant the first list so we will meet the terms of the second.”

Irene gave him a sad smile and gave on last look at Sherlock before she stood to sign papers and leave.

“No.” Sherlock barked.

“Sorry?”

“I said no. Very very close, but no. You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much.”

The Woman cooed, “No such thing as too much.”

Sherlock stood and stalked towards Irene, “Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game – I sympathise entirely – but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.”

“Sentiment? What are you talking about?”

“You.”

Irene choked on a giggle, “Oh dear God. Look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?”

“No.” Sherlock stood so they were almost touching at wrapped this fingers on his right hand on her left wrist. He brought his lips to her ears and whispered, his breath warm against her neck, “Because I took your pulse. Elevated; your pupils dilated. I imagine John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.”

He paced a few steps, both Irene and Mycroft staring at him while he explained, When we first met, you told me this phone was your life. How true of you; but this,” he tossed the phone up in the air before catching it, “this is also far more intimate. This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head.”

Irene stared at him, panic visible in her eyes along with the welling of tears.

“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for but you just couldn’t resist it, could you? I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage Thank you for the final proof.”

He was typing as he lectured and before he could type in the last digit, she grabbed his face, “Everything I said: it’s not real. I was just playing the game.”

Sherlock pulled free from her grip, “I know. And this is just losing.”

He presented his phone to his brother, the phone unlocked with the code “I am SHER locked”.

Irene watched the two men talk, both ignoring the tears that were escaping down her cheeks, “Are you expecting me to beg?”

“Yes.”

She gazed at the man wondering how she was able to fall in love with such a man, “Please. You’re right. I won’t even last six months.”

“Sorry about dinner.”

“You won’t do this to John. You wouldn’t make him see me killed again.”

Sherlock snorted, “Jim Moriarty got you into this, I’m sure he can keep you safe. He’s the one that needs to impress John; I’ve already done so.”

* * *

Mycroft’s men had been driving only twenty minutes with Irene Adler when the driver pulled out a gun and shot the remaining men in the vehicle.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Irene whispered as she pushed the dead man out of the passenger seat and took his place, “how upset is Jim?”

“To be honest Miss Adler, I’d almost say he’s madder at Holmes Jr. for rejecting you than he is at you for failing to seduce him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s mad at Holmes for breaking your heart.”

Irene couldn’t even force herself to smile at the man’s joke, “Good thing we know better.”

Sebastian handed her a cell phone with a grunt informing her it was from Jim. There was one unread text waiting.

**Love is a dangerous thing.  It’s the thing that makes everyone a little bit naïve and a little bit stupid. But Sherlock Holmes is stupid if he gave you up, love. -JM**

* * *

Mycroft was scrolling through the pages of sensitive documents on Irene’s phone when he looked up at his brother, “How did you know, Sherlock?”

“Know what?” the younger snarled.

“The terms of her first contract.”

Sherlock looked up with a perplexed look, “I didn’t. How is it relevant?”

Mycroft merely raised a single brow and handed the envelope over to his brother.

The crisp white page was empty except for once sentence in the middle:

**The terms of this contract include the metaphorical heart of one Sherlock Holmes in exchange for both the secured camera phone and the metaphorical heart of one Irene Adler.**

Sherlock stared at the paper before he threw it to the ground and rushed out of his brother’s office. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed and unbritpicked

“How’s he doing?” Greg asked once he finished chewing the bite in his mouth.

John sighed and placed his cup onto the café table, “It’s worse than when we thought she was dead. He hasn’t talked since his meeting with Mycroft. And now I can’t get in touch with Irene and Jim’ll tell me she’s alright but not a bit more.”

“Jim, is it?” Greg gives a half smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“He calls me every day and with Sherlock not talking... well, I need some genius,” the doctor joked before resuming the serious conversation, “I don’t know what to do. Why are Irene and Jim like this?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. Those two are peas of a pod, mate.”

“They’re selfish. Have Irene or Jim ever cared about more than their stupid games?”

Greg was quiet for a moment before he spoke, “There is one thing I know Jim treasures more than his games.”

“What’s that?” John gave him a disbelieving look.

“You.”

With a snort, John took a long drink of his tea, “Seducing me is the same game as Irene played with Sherlock. Jim buying me all those gifts doesn’t mean anything; he’s got tons of his money laundering to spend.”

“Not just the gifts though, like when you were shot I’ve never seen a man more panicked. He kept us all informed on your condition and if he hadn’t have had Sebastian watching you… well I worry you wouldn’t be sitting across from me.”

“Why does Jim have men watching us? Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

Greg chuckled, “Not us, John. Maybe Irene now, but it’s always just been you.”

“It’s just games. Besides, I’m not gay.”

The DI scoffed, “Oh please, I’ve known you long enough to know you aren’t all that straight.”

“Still don’t make Jim my type.”

“Oh yes, I forgot that you’re only attracted to men like Sherlock, geniuses with ego and social problems; men like Sherlock, specialists with mad resources under their fingers; men like Sherlock, consultants with dark hair and piercing eyes… oh wait, that’s Jim too.”

John looked like he wanted to rebuttal but his mouth merely flapped open a couple of times. Finally he settled on nicking one of Greg’s chips and asking about the upcoming footy match. The doctor kept the subject off any geniuses, and which of them he was attracted to, until finally their lunch drew to a close.

“I’ll catch you laters, yeah?” Greg called over his shoulder.

John called back, “Get an interesting crime and I’ll see ya sooner than later.”

He’d walked less than four blocks when his way was blocked by his flatmate.

“Sherlock, whats…?”

The detective cut off John’s question by lowering his head and pressing his lips to the doctor’s. Despite the short length of the kiss, it was anything but chaste. Sherlock nibbled on the other man’s and held onto it as he pulled away.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was more breathless than he intended, “what was that?”

“A kiss, John. Anymore obvious questions.”

“Okay, _why_ did we just kiss?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, “we’re in full view of the CCTV cameras.”

“So you wanted Mycroft to watch us snog?”

With another grumble, Sherlock replied, “Not Mycroft. Your friend who has Mycroft’s camera’s hacked.”

“So you wanted Jim to see us kiss. He won’t be happy.”

With one of his devious smiles, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and started to lead him back to Baker Street, “Exactly.”

* * *

Both Irene and Jim had watched the video of the kiss three times before either could think properly.

“You’re an idiot,” Irene finally spoke, “How could you not have predicted that Sherlock would turn to John for comfort. I need to-”

“Need to what, _Irene_? He rejected you, left you for dead even. He’s not going to pick you over John. I have to kill him.”

“Oh yes, kill John’s best mate and that’ll win him over.”

Jim’s shoulders slumped under his suit, “Shite.”

* * *

Sherlock was alone in 221B, John called to cover Sarah’s shift at the hospital, when he received the text from an unknown number.

**Daddy’s coming to talk to you. You’ve been a naughty boy, Sherlock Holmes.**

Within five minutes, Sherlock heard the telltale sound of the squeaky stair on the way up to the flat. He placed the tea tray down onto the small table and stood facing the window.  The door slowly opened and Jim Moriarty stood in the entrance with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“Most people knock,” Sherlock spoke as he turned to face the man, “but then you’re not most people I suppose. Kettle’s just boiled.”

“May I?” Jim asked as his eyes narrowed in on Sherlock’s usual chair.

“Please.” To Sherlock’s surprise the man chose to sit in John’s chair instead.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why did I pick John’s chair?”

The detective tilted his head slightly, “Tell you what you already know?”

“ _Prove_ to me that you know.”

“You picked John’s chair because you believe that him, and everything associated with him, belongs to you.”

“ _Goood._ ”

“One problem with that, though,” Sherlock continued, “John chose me over you.”

Jim’s eyes flashed, “Did it hurt? When I taught Irene exactly how to make you fall in love with her?”

“Did it hurt when I didn’t have to manipulate anything to make John love me?”

“You’re on the side of the angels. John needs more danger than you in his life. I’m the most dangerous man he’ll ever know.”

“Why are you doing all of this? Give up.” Sherlock snarled.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I can ruin your brother with terrorist information, I can ruin you with Irene and I can ruin John.”

“You wouldn’t.”

The criminal grinned, “Wouldn’t I? If I can’t have John I won’t let him be a liability. No-one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will.”

Sherlock pulled out John’s pistol, “I did.”

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment,” Jim remarked.

“Yes you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I did. But Daddy’s had enough now,” he lunged forward and ripped the gun out of Sherlock’s hands before the detective even realized the other man had moved.  Jim gave the gun a dirty look and slid it across the floor, “You assume everyone in power is similar to Big Brother, but you see I have no problems with legwork.  I’ve shown you what I can do. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. **Back off.** ”

“No,” John’s voice cut through the flat, the gun now in his hands, “You back off. We’re not playing your games anymore.”

Jim stood from John’s chair and stalked towards the captain, “Games? You think I’m still playing games? You’ve _burnt_ the heart out of me and you think I’d let you do that for a _game_?”

John tucked the gun into the back of his pants, “I’ve never pretended to understand you. Now leave.”

“No!” Sherlock jumped to his feet, “Tell us how to get in contact with Irene Adler.”

The criminal gave a long laugh, “You destroyed her. She will _never_ let you do that twice.”

“Oh for god sake, Jim, if Irene is actually in love with Sherlock then I can promise he’s just as barmy for her.”

“And you’d let her have him?  Even though you told our dearest Lestrade that there’s _‘always been something between you two’_?”

“You told him that?” Sherlock looked at John with a shocked expression, “You’ve never once expressed anything to that-”

John interrupted, “I was talking about Jim. That’s what he gets for spying on me, bad intel.”

“Sherly kissed you earlier this week… and that was to draw me out. Well played.”

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock repeated.

“If you break her heart again, I will kill you,” Jim glared at the taller man.

“Irene broke his heart twice-” John started.

“I’ve been well informed I don’t have one…”

“We all know that’s not quite true.”

“Gentlemen, please!” a fourth voice added from behind John, “I think I am quite able to make my own decisions.”

Sherlock’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the sound of Irene’s voice, and John would have laughed had he not been so frustrated with the emotional idiocy of his friends. He watched as the woman sauntered up to Sherlock, her trade mark confidence slightly lacking, and placed her hand on his cheek.  The detective raised his own hand to cover hers before the two stood and stared at each other.  His free hand brushed along her face, stroking her lips and memorizing the soft skin before the fingers traced her eyebrows and cheekbones. In turn, Irene's eyes became wet with emotion and two tears ran down her face as she smiled up at Sherlock. He brushed those tears away and rested his forhead against hers so they could stare into each other's eyes and share the same breath.

Jim noted John shift uncomfortably on his feet as the silent gaze grew longer. He approached the doctor and whispered in his ear, “What will it take for you to come home with me?”

John looked up at the criminal, “Try asking rather than manipulating.”

“Come home with me,” Jim’s lips brushed John’s neck as he spoke, “Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for changing my mind on the smut but I got too busy for it and now I feel like the story doesn't need it. #SorryNotSorry


End file.
